Subtext

I learned early on to hold my cards close to my chest. Children, especially teens, are cruel, and I’ve found that there are more than a few people out there who’d use aspects of someone’s life to hurt, to ridicule. You might say that I’m imagining that, but I don’t think so; I’ve fielded my fair share of cruelty over the years. Maybe it’s our not wanting others to know our personal and family secrets, unsure how those others will react to them, fearful that we will be rejected. We all have secrets. We all hold our cards close to our chests, all those secrets bottled up and suppressed, setting the subtext to our lives.

Is that cynical? Maybe, but I’ve noticed how my own family’s history, its subtext, has painted how we view the world. I have said on many occasions that we should be kind to all the people we meet, for we are all fighting a hard battle for the full measure of our lives. That’s an old piece of wisdom. There’s debate on who actually said it first.

I’ve never learned much about my father’s family. My dad was not particularly curious about his extended family, not even that curious about his parent’s history before he was born, so what I did learn came from snippets told by my mother and my grandmother. There was Blanche’s brother, whom she had sent quite a bit of money to over the years my father was growing up, supposedly to keep him out of jail for embezzlement (see earlier memories). There was a history between her and her sisters, I gather; I always had a sense of it when they visited. As to Jules’ family, I have few details except that there was a brother, Leo-Paul, in Quebec. I’d met Leo-Paul Jr, once, but have no memory of him except that he wore a jet-black handlebar moustache. I’ve learn aspects of the narrative that flowed beneath my father and his siblings, a somewhat rocky narrative at times, replete with grudges that have festered for decades. But compared to my mother’s family, they appeared an oasis of fun, and hugs and kisses.

My mother’s parents were born eleven years apart, and I don’t know if Hilda ever loved Mec, or if she hooked up with him because her mother pushed her on him, the good catch, the pharmacist. I don’t know if she married him just to get away from her mother. I’ve heard this potential meme suggested. I also recall it inferred that they spent their marriage inflicting harm on one another, and only adopted my mother to save their marriage. That would make for a cold, unemotional household. There may have been infidelity on Hilda’s part, certainly the onset of alcoholism on Mec’s. During the ‘40s, Hilda left Mec, taking my mother with her to Toronto, to live with her sister; and Mec let her go, but he would not support her or my mother so long as they did not live in his house; he was firm on that. But he did tell Hilda that the door was always open for her return; and when she did return, he was true to his word. Nothing was ever said about her leaving again. Not that it was forgotten, either, I imagine. Not that its memory didn’t linger; not that their marriage was ever salvaged by Hilda’s return. My mother has memories of Hilda finding bootleggers serving beer to my grandfather in their house, and Hilda throwing the bootlegger out. Hilda was no angel, either, from what I gather. My mother once told me that she’d had to wait in the car while Hilda “visited” a friend for an hour or so. I suspect that was why Mec retired to his bed, as a punishment to his wife who had never cared for him, but would have to now that he’d retired. She didn’t, of course; she continued to work into her late 70s, long after Mec had passed away. Was there love in the house? Poppa loved my mother. He was devastated when we moved to Timmins. Nanny didn’t like that we moved, either, but she visited often, even more so after Poppa died. And she was always a sympathetic ear for my mother’s troubles, never judging. Don’t judge my grandparents. People are complex, at the best of times. I do know, though, that my Poppa and Nanny doted on my sister and me. I choose to see the good in them.

Long prior to these events, my mother’s grandparents were of similar mind. Susan may have stepped out across the street to dally with Alf Cheeseman, Robert’s friend and neighbor. There must have been such a row following the discovery that both Alf (41 at the time) and Robert (37) thought it preferable to brave the trenches and join the CEF in 1916. Alf was in the artillery and returned after being gassed. He eventually took up with Susan, and they married after their divorces were finalized. Bob fought the rest of the war, at Vimy, at Passchendaele, and throughout the final 100 days when casualties were at their fiercest, and presumably never suffered more than a scratch. When he returned from the Great War, he never remarried, content to spend the rest of his life with his new “landlady.”

I see the subtext of my grandparents’ relationship, running through my mother, those memories close to the surface, remembered vividly 80 years on like they were yesterday. She wanted more for her own family. Where she was an only child, she wanted her children to have siblings, so she set about having her own.

Joseph-Arthur Bradette

She had only one. Karen and I were adopted. Her son Dean was born with extreme deformities and developmental issues. My parents unable to cope, Mec stepped in and made arrangements with his friend, Joseph-Arthur Bradette, the Ontario Senator for Cochrane District, who pulled some strings to have Dean placed in a care institute. This sort of thing isn’t done anymore, but it was then, and I doubt that my parent’s marriage would have survived caring for Dean. Despite his having been sent away, Dean had left a mark, a subtext that lurked beneath the surface of my family for decades, the living ghost of the boy who no one talked about. I discovered my first evidence of Dean when I was routing through the cupboards, looking for hidden chocolate, and I found some toys, dinky cars. Being a kid, I thought they were for me, so I took them down and played with them. My mother was livid when she saw me with them. I was terrified by her reaction. She spanked me for taking what wasn’t mine. It wasn’t until much later that I pieced together the truth, that I had taken what was a gift for Dean, and that I had peeked behind the curtain of her subtext. When she did tell Karen and me about Dean, we were told to never talk about him.

I learned to never talk about other things, too. I won’t mention what those things are. They’re not my story to tell. Let me be clear, though. There was no abuse. My parents were loving, affectionate, but I also don’t remember my family being overly tactile, either. But for all their warmth and love, there has always been the chill of subtext. I’d learned that there were things that were private, family things that the world had no right to know. I was learning my lessons. Keep it to myself. Don’t talk about it. More cards to hold close to my chest. Subtext.

That subtext leaves a mark. In 1982, we saw two artists in the Timmins Square. One penned caricatures with a Sharpie black marker; the other, a large, redheaded woman named Skye, who sketched colour portraits. I was fascinated. I loved to draw and these two were producing actual portraits of people. My mother asked us if we’d like to have our portraits done. We did, so we approached Skye to see about getting them done. She was busy, it took some time to produce each portrait, and she had a backlog of potential clients, so we had to make appointments for the next day. Her male counterpart, on the other hand, was much quicker, rendering far more simplistic profiles (probably from a stencil laid underneath), and was able to take Karen and I right away. When our sittings with Skye did happen, Karen had her portrait sketched first, and me afterwards. Each took about an hour.

While I sat for mine, I noticed and covertly watched the crowd observing Skye’s work resolve. A woman commented on how good it was, how she had captured me. She also noticed how I kept her within my view while keeping still, as instructed. She said. “She’s especially got the eyes right. He has very serious eyes.”

What she saw in them was subtext.

The Route Downtown

I’d walked to and from the downtown core so many times over the years while growing up on Hart Street, I could walk it in my sleep. And have.

The route I took passed through much of the “old town,” so there were a lot of back lanes, and I put them to good use. I probably shaved about 5 minutes off my time, considering the wide arcs I’d have had to walk round were they not there. Before I’d make the trek, either to or from, I’d check the time. The Howard-Lee bus departed from the depot every half hour back then, not like now, when the bus departs every hour (no wonder no one takes it anymore, given the inconvenience of the service, nowadays; I could rant on this for a while, but I doubt the town would waver from its tired old use-it-or-lose-it arguments). If the bus was due to leave downtown, or arrive at my bus stop within 10 minutes, I would take it; otherwise, I would begin walking. I walked fairly fast, back then (I suppose most adolescents do, having litres of adrenaline and hormones to burn off), and if I had a head start on the bus, I would usually beat it to my destination, or arrive at about the same time. That was a fare saved, a huge deal when existing on a limited allowance, or working for less than minimum wage, later on (more on that in memories to come). One had to count one’s pennies if they were to add up to quarters, the currency of choice for the arcade generation.

Here was the route. Follow on Google Maps, if you’ve a mind to. I’d leave my house (560 Hart), mount the hill up to Howard, where I would enter the first laneway. That back lane crossed Leone, and continued on until it exited back onto Hart Street, go figure (many steps saved). Hart merged onto Patricia. Where Patricia merged/ended at 8th Ave, I followed another back lane to Cherry Street, rounded the corner onto 7th, just in view of Toke (you know that intersection; it’s the one with the Art Deco house on the inside corner), followed 7th to Hemlock, then Hemlock to 5^th, past St. Matthews Anglican, past Spruce, cutting across the 101 Mall’s parking lot to Algonquin, and then onto Pine, and there was Downtown and Top Hats. The bus stop, on Cedar, was just a short alley’s walk away.

There was a blue-eyed husky along the way. I named him Blue, because of the blue kerchief tied around his neck. Not terribly imaginative, I know, but he wasn’t my dog (Piper was my dog then, a feisty West Highland White). I’d always stop to greet Blue, crouch down and scratch him behind his ears, accept the expected licks, and if I were leaving from home, I’d always pocket a couple of treats for him. He was a lonely dog, I think, tied up in a back alley, with little foot traffic to keep his interest. And sadly, one day he was gone. His dog house remained, the rope that held him too, but he was no longer alongside there to greet me, having faded to a memory I still cherish.

One day, after Blue had left this world, I was walking home, lost in my thoughts. A moment passed. And when I looked up, I found I was spilling out of the lane at the top of Hart Street. The last thing I was conscious of was rounding the Art Deco corner at 7th and Cherry. I’d walked almost half way home on autopilot. So, yes, I’d walked home in my sleep.

Track & Field

Or just track, in my case. I was always fast, faster than most in my class, anyway; so, it was only natural that I would enroll in track and field, or more specifically, the 100 and 200. Never long distances. Maybe it was because I came from a smoker’s house, but I lacked the lungs for it. I was usually placed in long jump, but I always seemed to either leap too early, or be disqualified for stepping on the board. I was hopeless at field. When attempting shot put, I’d have to dance out of the way to avoid crushing my toes. Javelin was not much better. Maybe I ought to have spent time in the gym, but I wasn’t interested in pumping iron. I had some at home. They were largely ignored, excellent at collecting dust in the corner. I tried hurtles, but we trained indoors at O’Gorman, and we only had room in the gym to set up three, and a mat against the wall. So, we’d have to crash into the far wall when training to keep enough momentum to clear the third hurdle. I always crashed into the fourth when in competition; I suppose that was that flinch instinct kicking in, expecting a wall to rise up and slap into me.

Track was late in the season, so I never made it into the yearbook. Those who ran cross-country in the autumn did, but never us in track and field. Too late to make the printers, I suppose.

My first meet was at RMSS, my first time on an asphalt track, too. I did alright, considering my never having ever worn cleats before, well enough to not lag behind, fast enough to finish with the field, but that was all. What I remember was an RMSS senior turning his dirty tube socks around so that the dirty bottom was on top. I wondered why he did that. It must have felt wrong, what with the heels all stretched out, not to mention the crusty feel they must have had.

I improved with age. Winning heats. Never quite coming out on top, but I remember always making it to the finals, and usually crossing fourth.

And then there was the joy of seeing friends who attended other schools, hanging with them, lazing out in the sun between races.

On one occasion, and I think it was the only time I’d ever seen him since Pinecrest, I watched an old friend, Mike (no idea what his last name was), running in the 400 meter. He was a short guy, muscular, long flaming hair flying behind him. I called out, “Go, Mike, go,” to him; he glanced over, but I don’t know if he recognized me as he passed. Time passes, people move on, and who knows, maybe he didn’t like me much back in Grade school. Or maybe he moved away, because, like I said, I never did see him again.

I do recall my less than finest moment. I was set to run the lead leg of the 200 m relay (not to brag, but we placed our two fastest runners in the lead and final leg, or so I’d like to believe). I surveyed the field, the competition, got set in my lane, one of the outer lanes, and anticipating the gun. There was the sharp snap, and I took off the moment I heard the shot. I focused on the race at hand, and when I ran, the world faded away, until there was only the pumping of my arms, the pounding of my feet on the track, my rapid breathing, my eyes on the lane ahead. What I remember most of the 200 was that you couldn’t see the other lanes, so when in the outer lanes, you couldn’t gage how you were faring against the inner lanes, so you had to really focus on maintaining speed, and on gaining speed. I thought I was doing pretty well. As far as I could tell, I was so far ahead that I couldn’t see anyone in my peripheral vision. What I did see, was my team mate, Mark Charette, the next leg on my team, running back toward me, waving his arms. I looked up, then around, then back. Not a soul. I was alone.

“What?” I asked, I yelled. I knew what.

“False start!” Mark said. Not my fault, either.

I was shocked, then furious in a heartbeat. I’d just ran 100 meters of a race for nothing. I threw the baton down. Cursed, almost threw a fit. Retrieved the baton. And sulked back to the starting point. Hoping and failing to get my wind back.

When the second start fired, I was slow to start, too aware of time, the gun, and another potential false start. And found myself too winded to do much better than to keep pace with the other lanes.

The Red Room

Your room is your first personal space. On occasion, it is also your place of punishment. Time outs were never long, probably no more than five minutes, but to a kid, five minutes can seem an eternity. I suppose I only lasted about two before calling down to my mother, begging for release, promising to be good. That is so odd, when you consider that my room was where all my toys were stored, all neatly stacked on the shelves that climbed the wall opposite the window. You’d think I could spend hours there and never be bored; but I suppose my begging release had more to do with seeking parental approval, and of being forcibly confined.

That said, my room was arguably the perfect space for punishment. It was a fitting colour, thematically red: red hanging lamp shade, red curtains, red bedspread. I have my doubts that I was consulted in the colour scheme. East facing, when the sun rose the room was bathed in a hot red, making the room seem even more close and stifling in the summer months (hardly anyone had air-conditioning then, to say nothing of ceiling fans). At night, when I lay about reading, the hanging lamp projected a single, focused circle of white light onto the bed, and bathed the rest of the room in a layered and faceted glow from the folded red glass. It had a somewhat hellish aspect to it. Oddly cool.

Later, an old, pint-sized school desk was added, set next to the entrance, where I had a full view of the hallway and a bit of the stairs, but nothing of the living room (these were the days before the addition was tacked on to the rear of the house and the living room migrated back there, and the dining room took its place). When I say old, I mean having an inkwell hole in the upper right-hand corner, and an open shelve under the writing surface. I kept a table lamp on it, and a transistor radio to help me pass the time while doing homework. I’m not sure how true that is; I recall stopping all work when Paul Simon’s “Slip Sliding Away” came on.

Later still, a turntable occupied the lower wall shelf, a stack of albums on the floor beneath it. I’d sit in front of it until my back ached, and then for some time more, selecting singles and LPs, lifting and setting the needle, memorizing every lyric, every riff, every nuance of those songs, impressing them on my memory.

Was the room always red? Probably not, but it will always glow red in my memory.

Hockey

My father always wanted me to play hockey. That’s understandable; he’d played hockey most of his life, mostly defense, but he could play any position, except goal (my Uncle Jerry played goal...right up into his 80s, if you can believe it). And he was good. Really good. I remember seeing him play a couple times when I was 4 or 5 years old. To say he flew on the ice would be an understatement. He had grace on the ice, as well. But he was dirty, too, I was told. No kidding. One of his nicknames was Dirty Leonard.

Back to my father wanting to follow in his footsteps: There was one problem. I never really learned to skate. Not from lack of trying. My parents had bought me skates when I was a tot, and I used to scurry up and down the driveway, mainly on my ankles, despite ankle supports. As years passed, I spent quite a few hours skating around the rink at Pinecrest, but I’d also spent some of it on my ass and even more time hugging the boards. I was alright taking a slow turn after years of practice, but crossing my legs over one another was out of the question, not to mention executing the classic hockey stop. Gliding or crashing into the boards was more my technique.

Not that my father didn’t try to teach me, he did, on occasion, but he was also a travelling salesman and didn’t come to the rink with me often. I don’t believe he knew how to teach me how, actually; it came to him too naturally to know how to describe it well, let alone teach it, and I don’t think he had the patience, either.

He took me up to Pinecrest one time, probably on my mother’s urging. He did not bring skates. There were a couple older kids there. They had a net, and took turns playing goal while the other took shots. My dad just had to get in there, so he called out to them, and I was left on the boards to watch. He winked at me before he slid over there. He may not wearing have been wearing skates, but he did glide over there with grace, he always had perfect balance on ice. He told them about his glory days (I did say he was really good, by the way), I’m not sure if they believed him much, so, he asked if he could take some shots on them, they agreed, exchanging looks that said, “let’s humour the old man.” They shouldn’t have (stupid kids, didn’t they see how he moved on the ice even without skates?). My father had a wicked slap shot, a good wrist shot too. He warmed up with a few wrist shots before hammering the poor kid with a few slap shots. The kid was hit a couple times, then there was fear in his eyes. Needless to say, my dad was showing off, more for me than them, but them, too.

Later, my dad wanted to put me on a hockey team. I think my mother tried to put him off the idea, but my father was adamant. I was going to play hockey. So, he enrolled me on a team, Esso, I think (actually, I remember the name, quite well). My mother took me to my first practice, and stayed, watching from the boards the whole time. When I got on the ice, I knew I was in trouble, not only were the guys racing back and forth the length of the ice and doing rapid direction changes, they were skating figure eights...backwards. I promptly landed on my ass. The coach sent a kid to help me, to teach me the basics. And to give the kid his due, he really tried. But there was too much skill to make up in so short a time and he grew frustrated, then finally giving me some tips, and raced off to practice with his friends. Once the “practice” was done, humiliated, I slumped into the car and told my mother, “I’m NEVER going back there again.”

I know my parents argued about it, but my mother won. I never did go back.

I’ve hated hockey ever since.

Discipline, Of a Sort

What is acceptable at school has certainly changed since I attended St. Theresa. Most teachers today probably remember their own treatment with horror.

Point in case: Grade 7, recess, one of my friends blurted out to the student body that it was my birthday. It was. Everyone wanted to congratulate me and help me celebrate in the most time-honoured tradition: by giving me the bumps. They grabbed me, took me by the arms and legs and lifted me off the ground, whipping me into the air and back down so that my bottom kissed the earth with each repetition. Each landing was accompanied with the most gleeful ONE, TWO, THREE, and so on, by everyone gathered, and laughter. They never reached twelve. Midway through, I screamed “Jesus Christ!” Not the best thing to yell at a Catholic school, or any school for that matter. Then we all heard an adult cry out, “HEY!” over their count and their collective laughter. Everyone fell silent, in fact the entire playground fell silent, like all animals do when they sense danger. They parted like the Red Sea, and I saw Mr. S. staring at me. Everyone was terrified of Mr. S. He was small for a man, no bigger than the tallest of us—the only thing large on him was his Roman, aquiline nose—but his reputation proceeded him.

“Does your mother know you talk like that,” he asked me, his voice filled with authority and menace.

“No, sir,” I whispered, very interested with the ground at my feet, glancing up just often enough to see if my deference had had any effect. It must have, because he cut me some slack, let me off with a warning. Maybe his having seen me repeatedly slammed to the ground had something to do with it. Although he did not have enough sympathy to stop them from doing it.

I was lucky. Not so a classmate of mine later on. I do not remember his name, but I do remember that he was a class clown, harmless really, but he did have a bit of a mouth on him. Looking back, I think he might have come from a bad home, but that’s just a guess. He was slight, average height, long, straight, shoulder length hair. Not the cleanest. Not the best clothing. He had a bit of a skittish poise about him. He had the misfortune to answer a question by S with a little sarcasm, not much, but enough to make us all titter nervously. S chuckled, too. And then he struck. He reached out over the lab table (you remember the type, blacktop, waist high, with tall stools on either side of a central sink) and grabbed the kid by the hair; he lifted the kid out of his seat, over the table, and literally threw him into the chalkboard. The kid hit hard and crumpled to the floor. We were stunned. There was silence as we tried and failed to process what we’d just seen. WHAT THE FUCK! Doesn’t begin to describe our collective shock. I still remember sitting transfixed, watching a lock of hair floating on the air as it fell to the ground. I remember seeing blood on the strands. S then hauled the wailing kid off the ground and slammed him back into the wall before dragging him out into the hall where he repeatedly slammed the kid’s head against the lockers. He then shoved the kid to the stairs and hauled him to the principal’s office. We didn’t move, we didn’t even whisper amongst ourselves lest he somehow hear us, not the entire time S was gone, not even when S returned and resumed class as though nothing had happened. We knew better. Even children know when they’re in the presence of a dangerous animal.

Nothing happened to S, as far as I knew. But I seem to recall that the kid transferred to Ross Beattie Public immediately afterwards. I did feel a thrill decades later when I heard that S had contracted cancer. That sounds horrible, I know, but I remain unrepentant of it to this day.

The Transfer

My mother wanted my sister and I to go to O’Gorman High School, part of the English Catholic Separate School Board, so, my sister Karen and I being 23 months apart, I had to transfer to St. Theresa (now O’Gorman Intermediate) when she entered O’Gorman High School (it’s a taxes thing). I was not pleased to leave all my friends behind (I imagine was my sister wasn’t too keen, either), but we weren’t given much of a choice. My mother was also under the impression that O’Gorman gave a better education than the public school, Timmins High; a lot of parents were under that impression, but as all school boards had to teach the same curriculum that was mandated by the Province, I can’t see how going to one school of the other made much of a difference, but hindsight is 20-20. I don’t regret going there. I enjoyed going there, for the most part.

I was nervous that first day; I was going to another new school, after all, and I didn’t know a soul (you’d think I would have this new class/new friends thing down by now, having moved from Cochrane at 4, and then held back in Grade 2; see earlier posted memories).

Karen and I walked together as far as St. Theresa, then she continued on her way to O’Gorman. I didn’t mind the walk; I’ve never taken a school bus (I always lived within the bus limit), and we gave one another moral support. But once she’d left to face her own first day in a new school, I was on my own. I recall milling about, leaning against the school walls, trying to appear cool in such a way as to attract the right new friends, trying not to appear envious that others were already grouped together. They at least, were not alone; they were already friends, having spent the last seven years of school together. The bell rang, teachers emerged to group us by grade, and my new school year amongst strangers began. I expect Karen’s experience was similar.

I met two boys fairly early on. The first was Garry Martin, a largely hyperactive boy who was drafted to take me under his wing, so to speak. Thank God for that, and thank God it was Garry. He and I became close friends and would soon share about a decade’s worth of life experiences together. The second was Gord Disley. We found ourselves at the back of a class together, and we began chatting. It was a comfortable chat. Then came introductions, but there was a sight change to the usual exercise where the teacher would just get each student to stand and tell something about themselves. In this case, we were to write something about ourselves, place the papers in a hat, and then as the teacher read each in turn the rest of the class would try to guess who that person was. I was clueless to all these clues, of course. But the girls were actually giddy about the game. When each was guessed or not, each of us then stood up in turn to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we wanted to do when we grew up. No one guessed mine (understandable, considering no one know who I was); I can’t even remember what I wrote, or what I said. But I’ll always remember what Gord said when his turn came: “I’m Gord Disley, and I want to be a Rock Star!”

True to his word, at 18, Gord packed his bags and moved to Toronto, guitar over his shoulder. He never looked back.

Did he become a rock star? No. But he did become a professional musician for a time, which is very much the same thing, I expect. He worked in restaurants to pay the bills while he waited for the expected to happen, which never did. Did he become famous? He did, somewhat. He became a stand-up comedian. He’s been on TV. He never became famous, but he did something few others ever did: He took a shot at it.

Muskoka

We didn’t venture out on vacations often. My father spent much of his time on the road, such is the life of a salesman, so he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of spending more time on a highway when he was on vacation. We went on a few, though. I recall Sudbury. I recall Niagara Falls and Clifton Street. And I recall visiting my mother’s cousin in Muskoka.

I was old enough to forge out on a canoe alone with Joe, son of Doreen, a cousin on my mother’s side, which would mean that I was probably 12 or 14, or around there. Joe and I stuck out to explore the lake. It was a sweltering day, the sky was blue, the air calm. Joe knew the lake by heart, whereas I’d never seen it before. I’d also hardly spent any time paddling a canoe. It had been years since we’d moved to Timmins and sold the Rancourt cottage, years since my father had taken up travelling for a living, so travelling while on holiday was not a priority to him. We had that summer, spending a short while at Pat and Doreen’s cottage on a Muskoka peninsula. I was bored. I didn’t really know Joe that well, and he seemed a lot older than me at the time. Our parents were sitting about chatting. That’s when Joe suggested the canoe. I was game, but a little nervous. I told him I had little experience in one, but he set me at ease, saying that he’d do all the steering, and that we’d be fine, so long as I didn’t flip us mid-lake. He laughed. I tried to. We stayed close to shore.
We were some ways out, about a half-hour or so, likely more, when the wind picked up some. Joe looked to the sky. Shrugged. We kept on. But, in no time at all, clouds resolved in an empty sky, grew dark, and piled high, one on top of another, as high as I could see. Joe stopped, surveyed the sky again, and thought it best that we head back. The wind began to whip us. We paddled hard. Rain began to fall, then pummel us. The boat rocked and pitched and I began to get very worried, and tired. My scrawny adolescent arms were spent, but fear kept me keeping on. Owing to Joe’s silence and his laboured breathing behind me, he too was worried. He too was tired.
That was when I saw a motor boat racing towards us. Pat was at the wheel, my father with him. I felt a wave of salvation. They slowed, motored past and swung around alongside. Joe climbed aboard while my father reeled me in. Pat ordered Joe to tie a line to the canoe. And we were off, the storm in our faces, the cottage still some way away despite our speed. The boat bucked and leaped through the chop, landing hard, jarring my jaw and impressing me to hang on with all my worth to my seat. I watched the canoe weave and jump on its line, as though trying to throw its hook. Lightning cut the sky, and I thought on how I’d always been told that one should never be on the water during a thunderstorm. I wondered what would happen if the boat was hit, what would happen if the lightning struck the lake.
Safe back at the cottage, dried off and changed and sipping instant hot chocolate, I watched it lash at the lake. I’ve always loved storms. I’d never once seen a storm rush in that quickly before.

TV, Vietnam & Watergate

I have only the haziest recollections of Vietnam as it was happening. I have no indication that those memories are real; they may only be the ghost of all those Vietnam War documentaries that were aired over the years, slipping into their periodic place. I stand by the memory, though. Vietnam was on the news, every day, and I could not help but notice those little war movies on the TV every night after supper. They were confused with and jumbled up with WW2 movies and M*A*S*H until they were all one conflict, all part of WW2 in my mind.

Seriously, they were. I couldn’t unravel the tangle at the time. Indeed, I wasn’t even aware of the Vietnam Conflict as a separate entity, then. I recall watching a John Wayne war film on TV with my father: It was "The Green Berets,” his only film set in Vietnam. Watching it now, it's rather obvious that it's set in Vietnam. Glaringly obvious. Vietnam had even been named throughout, but to my young mind, John Wayne always fought in WW2, when he wasn't fighting Indians in covboy movies. Indeed, he was the face of WW2. He always fought against the Japanese in the Pacific theatre, too; never Nazis (the Longest Day exluded). And the Vietnamese looked deceptively like the Japanese, so it was an easy to supplant one in the other.
I know that the Vietnam war left its mark on me, because it has since become mythic in my mind, a confused array of firebases and jungle patrols, and firey plumes of napalm consuming all that adheres to. I remember a phrase that was strangely popular for a time, a cruel, insensitive, and horrific phrase: "Naplam sticks to children,"

I do have a solid memory of being absolutely pissed off about Watergate. Everything I wanted to watch pre-empted by all that bla bla bla Watergate Nixon talk. It was all too boring for the 9 or 10-year-old I was. Everything was preempted. Not “Hockey Night in Canada,” though. Never that. Nothing could preempt Hockey Night in Canada, not in Canada. I rebelled. I had a fit. I bitched about it to my parents, as if they could do something about it, but we were limited to two or three channels then, and Watergate was on them all.

Early TV

A television show from my childhood popped into my head the other day, the Hilarious House of Frightenstein, a Canadian children’s show that aired in 1971, hosted by Vincent Price and starring Billy Van, Billy Van, Billy Van, and Billy Van. I looked it up on Wikipedia and was surprised to see that it only lasted one season, but aired 130 episodes! Vincent Price introduced the skits from a dark and stormy balcony, lightning flashing on the stone wall behind him. He’d recite bad poetry in that voice we all remember so fondly to set them up. Or should I say, that I remember so fondly. Billy played most characters, including Count Frightenstein, the Wolfman, Grizelda the Witch, the Ghastly Gourmet, and most others, but it was the Librarian that I remember most vividly. And wrongly. My memory is more in tune with “Tales from the Crypt” than what was.

We’d creep into his library for story time, where the wizened, ancient librarian was sleeping and had to be awakened. He sputtered. He was gruff. But then he would welcome us, ask us to sit and he’d begin to read children’s stories like Humpty Dumpty to us. He thought were horror stories, he thought they would terrify us. When he saw that we weren’t frightened, he would admit that he wasn’t actually frightened either, and that maybe the story wasn’t that scary, after all. But he promised that next time he would truly terrify us with another gruesome tale. Truth was, HE and his library terrified me! There were cobwebs everywhere, skulls on tables, moldering furniture; but mostly it was him, ancient, wizened, curmudgeonly, and covered in cobwebs, that creeped me out. I wanted to race from the room and hide every time I heard the Librarian theme music.

There were others that come to mind from that period in my life, shows far less terrifying: The Banana Splits Adventure Hour, The Magic Roundabout, H.R. Pufnstuf, Do Not Adjust Your Set!, Davey and Goliath, and of course, The Friendly Giant and Mr. Dressup.
Did I make you remember those special TV shows from your childhood? I hope so. They were magical!